


[Abandoned] Birds of a Feather

by Fabulous_Fan_Fables



Category: Keeper of the Lost Cities Series - Shannon Messenger, The Wingfeather Saga - Andrew Peterson
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Set before the Wingfeather Saga series‚ set post Neverseen but prior to Lodestar, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27000529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fabulous_Fan_Fables/pseuds/Fabulous_Fan_Fables
Summary: This fic is abandoned, since I am going to be reworking the story/format since I suffered massive burnout when writing this. The new fanfic with a similar plot line’s working title is ‘Tale of Talons’, if you’re interested.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	1. The Portal

**Author's Note:**

> Additional content warnings will be at the beginning of each chapter, and a chapter summary will be in the endnotes of every chapter. Work is abandoned! Only 3 chapters are written for it, as of now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings for Chapter 1: Brief anger and fighting, mentions of alcohol, abuse, mental illness, self-hate and character death. Tread with caution, remember you are loved ♡

“Where are you going?” 

It took him a moment to realize the question was directed at him. He blinked, stopping to look at the other councillor. A bag was slung over his shoulder, filled with the bare minimum for the trip he was about to go on. His imparter, his money cube, a few spare nutrition bars. His outfit didn't have any pockets, so he had to make do. “To see Dex. He has an invention he wants me to witness.” Bronte answered, to the point.

They were both in the lounge of one of the castles, Terik’s castle to be exact. They had had a council dinner, and the festivities were beginning to die down. Well, mostly. Bronte could hear a crash and then loud laughing from the other room. Terik had introduced alcohol into the mix, stupidly, Bronte decided. He hoped whatever broke wasn’t expensive. 

But Terik didn’t seem to care, curled up on a loveseat with a book in his lap, unflinching at the rambunctious shouting. He stared blankly at Bronte, an eyebrow raised. “And who is Dex?” Terik prompted, and Bronte sighed.  
  
“One of the Moonlark’s friends.” Terik didn’t show any signs of recognition. Obviously. His head was always so high in the clouds that remembering names and details were not his strong suit. Bronte decided his strong suit might as well be being vague and somewhat helpful. “The technopath?” Terik shrugged, head tilted to the side. Bronte scoffed, Terik was getting on his nerves. He threw up his hands dramatically, “whatever! Dex wants me to visit his house, and ensure what he is doing is...” He frowned, hands crossing over his chest, trying to find the right word.  
  
“Illegal?” A new voice interjected, and Bronte turned to see Emery stroll into the room, cape swishing behind him. The door shut behind him, muting the chaos he had left from. Emery was tall and elegant, dark skin contrasting nicely with his silver vest and cape. Bronte refused to admit it, but the powerful councillor often caught his interest. Emery’s usually calm demeanor was full of distaste, “if he is one of Sophie’s friends, I have no doubt he’d try something against our code.”  
  
Bronte scowled, remembering why he disliked him in the first place, “she had reasons for what she did. Might I remind you that she helped save the gnomes from a plague, while we did nothing?”  
  
“We did what we could,” Emery said with a dramatic roll of his eyes, crossing his arms across his chest to mirror Bronte.

“Well, it wasn’t good enough. Calla had to die, because of our lack of action.” Bronte said, including himself in those being blamed. He was faulty, he wasn’t perfect. He knew this. But Emery was far too prideful to realize his faults, so Bronte was there to remind him, “do you ever even realize you’ve messed up until someone points it out?”  
  
Emery rounded on him, eyes blazing, “like you don’t do the same! You feel like you’re so high and mighty, so wise and powerful, just because you’re an ancient!” He snapped, towering over Bronte’s small figure. Bronte didn’t panic or back down, staring up at him with a level gaze, the two so close Bronte could smell the mint soap Emery washed his hair with. Emery continued, “you may have the pointed ears and the millennia under your belt, but we are equals! Equals, Bronte.” His voice softened, and Bronte could see he was upset. His hands gripped his arms with a fierce hold, and Bronte reached out.  
  
“Em, I think the alcohol is getting to you. Drink some water, lay down. We can talk more later, I have to go.” Bronte said, voice oddly gentle, slowly prying Emery’s slender hands away from his arms, not wanting him to hurt himself. Emery looked surprised at his change of attitude, but he nodded sadly, biting his lip.  
  
“Yeah, I may have drunk a little too much. I’ll... see you later.” Emery turned and left, cape twirling majestically, shutting the door behind him. He was likely going to drink more alcohol if Bronte knew him at all. He would regret not taking Bronte’s suggestion when morning came, but what could he expect?  
  
Terik whistled, and Bronte turned, he had forgotten that he had been there the whole time. “Woah, didn’t know you two had such a.. strange dynamic.” He said, hiding a snicker, grinning. Bronte sent a pointed glare at him. Terik shrugged, resuming his book.  
  
“Whatever. I have a meeting to attend.” He opened the door, lifted his pathfinder to the light, and stepped into the beam.  
  
-

Bronte shivered at the cold of his location, hugging himself, his cape whipping around him at the harsh winds. Dex’s home was in the middle of a snow-filled forest, and Bronte regretted dressing so lightly. But the indoors should be warmer, he hoped. He raised his shaking fist and knocked on the door. Exactly 37 seconds passed before the door opened.  
  
“Councillor Bronte! You came!” The young boy who had answered it chirped, eyes wide. His clothes were dirtied with what looked like dust and grease. His fiery red hair was tousled and he looked exhausted.  
  
“Yes, I did. Where is your invention?” Bronte answered simply, scowling, but not at Dex but rather because Dex was blocking the doorway and it was just so cold.  
  
“Right! Just this way.” Dex moved from the doorway, tripping over his feet as Bronte immediately stepped through, eager to get rid of the cold. But, to his misfortune, it was just as cold inside as it was outside.  
  
Bronte had questions, as they began to make their way through the first level of the house, going down corridors and halls with hardly a distinction between them, but the first question he asked was, “why is it so damn cold?”

Dex seemed surprised at him cursing but shrugged, “my mom is a Froster. She loves the cold.”

“And your father?” Bronte merely meant to make conversation, but he may have hit a nerve since Dex grimaced.

“Talentless. They were a bad match, have a problem with that?” Dex sent an icy glare at him, and Bronte stumbled back.

“Not particularly, apologies. I was just curious.” Bronte said apologetically, and Dex relaxed. The boy opened his mouth to respond, but a scream broke out in another room nearby. “What was-?”  
  
“Siblings. The triplets are... something else.” Dex said, leading him to a door outside, and across a stone path to a decent-sized wooden shed, nicely built and sturdy. “They shouldn’t bother us out here, by the way,” Dex said, grabbing a key ring and struggling with the lock on the door. Bronte noticed he didn’t use a common DNA sensor, perhaps because licking one would freeze his tongue to the wall. The human inventions of keys were simple, but they worked well enough.  
  
Bronte tapped his foot on the stone tile they stood on, arms crossed to conserve heat, “now, what is this invention you are so eager to show me?”  
  
“Well, uhm, I had an idea, and I had to see it through. I’ve been working on it since Sophie got back.” Dex told him, managing to get the lock opened, pushing the door open. Bronte peered into the room, and...  
  
Wow. He did not expect that.  
  
“I was inspired by human science fiction movies.” Dex added quietly as Bronte walked in to admire the machine, the room thankfully a lot warmer than the main house. The door clicked behind them as Bronte began to roam the floor, eyes transfixed to the fascinating invention Dex had made. Most of it was against two parallel walls, electronics were everywhere, confusing and fantastical. Monitors displaying code, keyboards and buttons caught his attention, but none of the numbers and runes on the screens he recognized. But, the true beauty of what Dex made was set between the towering walls of machines, hooked up to wires and components in a strangely asymmetrical pattern. Everything had a place and reason, but only Dex would know what it really meant. The giant ring took up the entire middle wall and was made of thick chunks of metal studded with flashing lights adorning its frame. The center was hollow, and Bronte felt something was missing. He could easily walk through the loop, but why would he need to? Perhaps that was what the purpose of the surrounding electronics was, he pondered.  
  
Dex broke Bronte’s stunned silence, fidgeting with his sleeve, staring at the empty ring and pointedly not at the ancient councillor. “It is a portal. I wanted you to see the first proper trial run. It uh, probably won’t explode this time.”  
  
Bronte tried to ignore that last part, eyes wide as he tried to take in every detail, every component and fantastical wire, “what does it do?” He found himself asking, voice quiet, and reserved.  
  
“Brings you from one place to another, instantly. A door between two settings... Between two worlds.” Dex whispered, and Bronte turned to gaze at him more closely, curious of how such a young elf could fathom making something so powerful.  
  
“Worlds?”

The boy ducked his head, retreating in on himself, “I’ve been watching too many sci-fi movies, sorry. It’s supposed to act like how teleporting or light leaping works, but entirely stationary. A door that you can walk into and from easily.”  
  
Bronte looked back at the machine, interest piqued. “Where’s the other door?”  
  
“I don’t have another one. Just this one. It should, uh.. open up another one. With magic, I assume. I don’t quite understand it, but I am trying.”  
  
The two stood in silence at the revelation, and Bronte sighed after several minutes passed. “Well, what are we waiting for? Turn it on.” He said, smiling, feeling strangely giddy with excitement.

Dex nodded, moving to a panel of inputs, his hands poised over it, but he hesitated, “is this, uhm, against any elven law?” He asked, smiling nervously.  
  
Bronte narrowed his eyes, “probably.”  
  
“Will you tattle on me if it was?”  
  
“Tattle? Kid, I am part of the highest authority in the Lost Cities, if I tell them I would not be _tattling_ , but rather doing my job.” He hissed, and the boy shrunk back. He probably realized saying that to one of the most notoriously cruel councillors was not a good idea. He ducked his head once more, out of fear. Bronte felt a twang of guilt, and he sighed, easing the tension from his shoulders, removing his circlet as gently as he could. “I apologize for my anger, Dexter Dizznee. I do not like being talked down to.” He slid the circlet into his satchel, careful, “but my lips are sealed. Whatever happens next, I will witness as a citizen and not a councillor.”  
  
Dex relaxed as well, giving a shy smile, “thank you, cou- Bronte.”  
  
Bronte tried to return the smile, negative emotions swirling around his mind at the near freakout. The anger that had hit him seemed too fast, and Bronte didn’t like what that said about him as a person. If a child saying the wrong thing made him angry enough to inflict, he was much more terrible than he gave himself credit for. He knew he had darkness in his soul, centuries of inflicting pain on others would do that. His thoughts targeted that new thought, and he was forced to reminisce on how foolish he had been. Since he was young, people wanted his power. They were willing to manipulate him for their own gain, and told him he was doing the right thing. They didn’t care that it might shatter his poor mind, letting him become the judge, jury, and _executioner_ . When someone disobeyed, Bronte was there to punish them, giving them all the negative feelings he had stored in his soul. The victim would writhe on the ground after the tortuous blow, and the fellow councillors would thank him and have him sit back down as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t just shown how big of a monster he was and they didn’t care. He saw the goblins drag an innocent elven woman away after she was convicted of a minor charge, and he had been told to deal her a round of agony. She met his gaze and he had seen her pain and sadness, and it nearly broke him. He had started to cry as soon as she was gone, and the councillors had been kinder to him after that, he distinctly remembered Fintan petting his back and telling him he did a good job. This was way before Fintan had been kicked out, way before Fintan decided to kill Kenric-  
  
“Bronte!” 

Bronte stumbled back, raising a hand to his face, hesitantly touching his irritated cheek. “Did.. did you just hit me?” He asked the boy, surprised, momentarily distracted. 

“I didn’t know what else to do! You were shaking real bad, and I thought you were about ready to inflict on me, so I had to snap you out of it!” Dex rambled, hands raised defensively.  
  
Bronte nodded slowly, trying to focus his abstract thoughts, his abstract thoughts now focused on Fintan, on his sly smile and the fire he had made, consuming the city in an unstoppable blaze.

“What the heck even caused that?” Dex continued, “I- are you crying?”  
  
“What? No! Of course not.” Bronte turned away and rubbed his hand across his face, feeling wetness on his palm. “I was thinking about Fintan. And... and Kenric.” He answered, a lot quieter.  
  
“Oh. I.. I’m sorry. Were you two close?” Dex asked, inching closer to him.  
  
“As close as anyone could get to me.” Bronte answered with a bitter laugh. Kenric had called him a ‘grumpy pants’ not long before his death. Bronte may think of Kenric as a friend, but Kenric likely only thought of him as the monster he knew he was.  
  
“Oh. Um, you aren’t _that_ bad...” Dex started unhelpfully.

He sneered, “So you do admit I am bad.” Bronte shot back, expression twisted in fury. Not at the boy, but at _himself_. 

Dex looked upset. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”  
  
“Yeah. You shouldn’t have.”  
  
The two stood in an uncomfortable silence, then Bronte huffed, “what are you waiting for? Start your portal thing.”  
  
Dex nodded and gladly left Bronte, stopping at a large panel of inputs, fingers dancing across them. Bronte saw a computer screen above him light up with a complex code full of numbers and runes, and Bronte gasped as the machine began to whirl into motion.  
  
The metallic ring was actually its own object, Bronte realized, separating from the rest of the electronics and beginning to spin, fully detached, although clearly taking energy and directions from Dex and his inventions. It spun faster and faster, until it was a blur of motion, making Bronte’s head hurt. Then, as if things weren’t weird enough, color started to bleed into the center, spinning into it in a whirl of light. He noted the colors were deep and vibrant, filling the ring entirely with color. It was captivating, how the pool shimmered and spun as one.  
  
Bronte took a step forward, yearning to dip his hand into the murky waters just beyond his reach. Into the mesmerizing horizon he was staring into. The colors and light called to him, promising an answer to his many questions and desires. _I can set you free,_ a silent voice told him, _I can help you to love again. Love_ yourself _again._

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you!” Dex yelped, and Bronte grimaced, retreating, disappointment heavy on his soul. “I still need to stabilize the body of the portal, but even then we have no idea where it leads to. It could lead nowhere, for all we know. I have to do some tests before anyone can step through.” The boy told him, sounding distant. Far away.  
  
It made sense, but Bronte still felt saddened at the information. He wanted to step through, to reap the rewards the portal had sown into his heart. _How long,_ the portal begged, _how long have you hated yourself? How long have you yearned for acceptance from your peers, only to be rejected?_

Tears blurred his vision, but perhaps it wasn’t just his tears that were blurry. The portal spun faster, and the colors grew muddled and murky. Bronte could no longer tell the difference between the reds and the blues and the yellows. The portal was rich in saturation, but dark, and terrifying, and Bronte couldn’t look away. 

Alarms began to blare. Lights flashed. Dex shouted at him, but Bronte was transfixed. He felt something grab him, trying to force him into the portal. He stood his ground, using mind exercise to keep himself stationary, despite the harsh winds trying to urge him through. But his feet slid on the ground, and he started to panic, losing his concentration as he stumbled back.

“Bronte! It’s coming down, get out of there!” Dex screamed, but Bronte had no chance to flee. The vacuum of the portal had him, pulling on him, sending him onto his back as it grasped his ankles, dragging him forth. _Come_ , it told him, almost reassuringly, as he grabbed onto something Dex had left on the ground, gripping it as hard as he could, tears slipping down his face, _you will be free. Just let go._ So Bronte let go, his strength finally failing him, and he was sucked into the portal. 

The machine exploded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Bronte has a brief fight with Emery then leaves Terik’s home. He talks to Dex, and spirals a bit before focusing on the portal Dex made. Dex activates it, and Bronte is entranced by the portal, which seems to promise him an escape from himself. He gets sucked into the portal, and the chapter ends.


	2. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings for Chapter 2: Semi-graphic depictions of injury, pain, blood, wounds, animal bites, burns and explosions. Depictions of anxiety, fear, especially fear of death, as well as mentions of past abuse. Tread with caution, remember you are cherished ♡

The portal exploded. He had no time to react, getting thrown into his machines in front of him with a disorienting crash. The metals were hot, overheating, and he stumbled back as they sizzled and zapped, catching his hands in a fiery snap of pain. 

He noted a chain reaction had started in his creation, and he knew he had to flee before he was caught in the brunt of it, or he’d have much more severe injuries than the achy burns in his hands. He ran to the door, tripping, and coughing, shoving himself against it. It didn’t open at his first attempt, adrenaline blaring in his ears, and another explosion ricocheted through the shed, searing his back in flame and shrapnel.    
  
He slumped against the door, barely managing to twist it open, falling onto the stone pathway just outside with a grunt. Faintly, he wondered just what had happened. He had built the machine, and he remembered there were three main energy components. One under the ring, and one on either side. Two had combusted, one was left.  _ Keep going. Keep going.  _

Dex let out a sob, lifting himself onto his forearms, crawling forward inch by inch, biting back his pain. His eyes were locked on the house not far away, across the stepping stone pathway, across the chilly dark and fresh snowfall. The cold both soothed and agitated his burns as he crawled, tears sliding down his cheeks and turning to ice, clinging to his skin. Halfway to the house, the third energy component blew up, and he ducked his head into his arms as debris and heat blasted from the remnants of the shed. Thankfully, the third explosion did not affect him as much as the first two.    
  
He finally got to the door, raising a bloody fist and pounding on it. He kept hitting it until his energy and focus gave way, his body slumping to the ground. He thought he would die, waiting there in the cold, bleeding and hurting  _ so bad.  _

His thoughts zoned off of his need for survival, trying to cope with the experience he was undergoing. He had been burned before, by Brant, but those were controlled burns and they had a purpose. Brant hadn’t intended on killing him, but the pain splitting him now certainly did. It was chaotic and messy and he didn’t know what hurt more. He didn’t even understand what exactly was hurting him in the first place. The burns? The shrapnel? The cuts? Perhaps the blunt force trauma to his skull when he was first thrown?  _ Wow, he really was gonna die.  _ _   
_   
The door cautiously creaked open. Shouting followed, but not at him, likely for help. Panicked shouting. He lifted his head enough to see three pairs of feet dancing across the floor and he realized it was the triplets. They’d get his parents, and he’d be taken care of...   
  
Dex passed out. 

-

His world was a blur of sounds, feelings, and dreams. He was hardly lucid, and for a moment he wondered if this was when he died. But finally, after what felt like weeks, he was awake. Fully, this time. No half-conscious fear and pain, and no confusing voices and touches.    


He took a moment to properly take account of his body, then spoke, eyes still glued shut. “Hey.” 

He didn’t get an immediate answer, but an exhausted voice eventually spoke up, “how are you feeling kiddo?”   
  
Dex frowned, and he considered his response, grimacing. His body… hurt. Badly. “Not too good, sir.” He mumbled, struggling to speak properly, being laid on his stomach, shirtless, so Elwin could treat the extensive burns on his back he assumed.    
  
“We’re doing our best to help with the pain, kiddo,” Elwin started, his voice somewhere behind him and to the left. “But a lot of it you’ll just have to tough it out. I’m sorry about that.” Dex heard the worry in his tone, and he winced, pressing his face into the light cushion under his head. The material in the cushion was thin, and Dex assumed it had some secret method in place so Dex could breathe through it and not suffocate.    
  
He took a few deep breaths, trying to focus on not the pain, definitely not the pain. “I’m okay, I swear, I just…” His muscles were tense, and his mind hyper-fixated on the dozens of injuries he felt on his sore back and body. He had to distract himself, what would- “Bronte? What about… what about Bronte?”    
  
The room was silent, and Dex wondered if he said something wrong. He gulped, trying to ease his swelling panic, lifting his head to look over at the physician. Elwin watched him, working on an elixir it seemed. He put down an ingredient, visibly tense, and Dex felt the panic get worse. “What about councillor Bronte. Was he..” Elwin’s hand shook, “was he with you?”   
  
“Yes.” His voice was too quiet. But Elwin heard. He knew he did, since Elwin let out an extra colorful string of curses, and Dex whimpered. “Why- why’s that bad. Was he- was he killed?” 

“No. He was not. In fact, he was not affected by the explosion at all. No sign of him, or anyone, was in the crash site, so I assumed that meant you were alone.” Elwin finally told him, voice on edge.   


Dex took a moment to let that sink in. “So that... That must mean he was pulled through the portal before it exploded.” Which made sense, he realized, since the portal likely combusted at the imbalance of Bronte entering it in the first place. Security measures to keep it stable he had yet put in place.    
  
He was interrupted by a soft murmur, and he looked over to see Elwin deep in thought “...Portal?”    
  
“Yeah. That’s what I built.” Dex wanted to fidget, anxiety deep in his bones. But Elwin’s next words dispelled some of his unease. Some.    
  
“Tell me about it. The portal. I… I need to know what to tell the councillors when I inform them of councillor Bronte’s disappearance. Don’t worry, I’ll try to keep you out of it the best I can so you can focus on healing.” His tone was gentle, and Dex felt comforted. Elwin was on his side. He knew Dex never meant to hurt the ancient councillor.    
  
So, Dex started to tell him about the portal. Rambled, really. His words started, and he couldn’t stop him. He told him about the three energy cores, and the magnets, and the wireless transfers among the machines in the form of coded signals, and the lack of stabilizers on the energy components since he never meant anyone to enter the machine that day. Dex felt guilt for his part in Bronte’s disappearance, so Elwin shifted his focus to the goal of the machines. Dex gladly switched topics, chatting excessively about the techniques and things he figured out, about his use of magic into the wiring and energy cores so the portal would work. He talked about how he learned to locate and predict where the second portal would go since the magic and technology he used would open up another.    
  
“And, not to upset you, but do you remember where the second portal was supposed to open up for Bronte?”   
  
The question startled him, but as he thought about it, he began to piece together his thoughts in a way that would make sense. “I remember the numbers and settings I had in place for the location, but what those numbers mean I have hardly any idea. I can try to replicate them, so I will have a portal leading to the same place. Also, the rotation of the Earth does not affect the location of portal number 2, and that includes other planets and their rotations.” He was about to continue his tangent, but Elwin gasped.    
  
“Dex, what do you mean. Do you mean Bronte might not even be on  _ Earth _ ?” He demanded to know, voice a bit shriller than Dex had heard before.    
  
Dex shrunk into the cushions, embarrassed. “It’s just a theory. But perhaps.”   
  
Elwin shook his head, cleaning his glasses, mumbling something to himself about ridiculous nonsense. Dex knew he was probably right about it, but it still hurt to hear him say that. 

The theory had been in his mind for a while, probably even since he manifested. Different worlds. Different realities. Different universes. He didn’t know how factual his theory was, but he had been working on it long before he began his machine. He wondered where Bronte was. Was he even on Earth..? 

He didn’t know. 

-

When Bronte had crashed, he had been knocked unconscious near instantly. He lay in a muddy divot on the ground, battered and bleeding, but he wasn’t alone. An animal was hunched over him, jagged teeth digging into the soft flesh of his leg. The forest he was in was quiet, other than the noises of the predator eating. But when Bronte started to wake the creature fled into the trees.    


“What the hell,” Bronte whispered, eyes clenched shut against the sudden light he perceived. He tasted iron, and he felt a horrid pain in his leg. He groaned, shifting his aching body, grasping the wet grass under him, and slowly dragging himself to a sitting position.   
  
He didn’t quite recall what had happened, but he decided it didn’t matter. At least not now. He finally opened his eyes, and he realized the pain in his leg wasn’t from the fall. It was an animal bite. Well, not even that. It looked like it had taken a chunk of flesh from his leg, blood staining his pants and the ground, the wound horribly gruesome.   
  
“Wow.” He managed to murmur, feeling dizzy at the sight. He never liked blood. Especially not his own. His mind envisioned himself bleeding out right then, but he realized it wasn’t that bad. He’d just have to… stem the flow, and find help.   
  
“I can do that.” He told himself, unfastening his cape with shaking fingers. “I can do that.” Bronte wasn’t weak, he was far from it. It was just a measly bite, he could handle it. Then he could find a physician to make sure it didn’t get infected, and he’d be alright. Yeah. That was a plan.    
  
He took his cape and used a tear from the fall to rip it apart, making uneven strips to wrap around his wound. His hands trembled, and he saw his skin was very pale, and he realized he may have experienced some blood loss.    
  
His mind wandered, as he hoisted his right foot towards himself, lifting his wound and easily looping the shredded cape around his thigh. He wondered what kind of animal could do this. A wolf? A lion? Maybe a cougar? He was likely in the Forbidden Cities, and those animals were common elsewhere. Maybe. He didn’t focus on dull details like animal populations in cities he rarely saw.  _ An idiotic oversight, _ he chastised himself. 

He tied off the makeshift bandages, trying to ignore the red already soaking through. He dropped his thigh back to the ground, grunting at the spike of pain he got from that. He took a few deep breaths, then Bronte checked his bag. His imparter, his money cube, and some nutrition bars. Three to be exact.    
  
He froze, eyes focusing on the food, and he ripped open the closest bar, getting crumbs everywhere as he consumed it as fast as he could, nearly forgetting to breathe. A laugh bubbled up,  _ wow _ he was such a mess. He giggled tiredly, wiping his face off with his sleeve, hardly noting the blood and dirt he had wiped onto his sleeve.   
  
He decided it was time he tried to stand. Yes, he was dizzy and tired, but staying where the animal could easily find him again was not a good idea.    
  
So Bronte crawled over to a tree and used it as support as he stood, hands getting scraped up on the rough bark, but he didn’t care. Not one bit. He wavered on his feet, and he bit his lip hard to hold back the shout he wanted to release. He gasped for air, feeling way too out of breath and panicky to breathe. He backed up against the tree, leaning against it with a whimper, closing his eyes.    
  
He was so tired. Too tired. He wanted to sleep so bad. But the ground was dangerous, what could he do?    
  
A thought struck him, one equally relieving and terrifying.  _ Climb into the trees. _ Bronte shuddered and looked up. The canopy was high above, likely 40 feet up at the tallest points.   
  
Pros and cons. He had to list the pros and cons. The goods and bads of this  _ horrifying _ plan.   
  
Pros. He would be safe from the creature who bit him. Hopefully.

Cons. If the animal could climb, or any other predator at all could, then he was a sitting duck. He could fall, either while climbing or from his resting spot. He was no doubt going to strain or hurt himself even  _ attempting _ this. Also, his leg was hurting so bad, climbing would be extra difficult and painful for him.   
  
He stared at the trees, shaking from adrenaline and cold. But he reached a decision. He had to do it. He had to.   
  
Bronte left the tree he was leaning against, limping as he made his way across the mud and grass, vision tunneling. But he had a purpose. He could do this. He fell against the tree he had chosen, one with low enough branches for him to grab a hold of and get up. It’s not that he was short, but… okay, he was short. Whatever.   
  
Bronte reached for the first branch with his right hand and snatched hold of it. His grip was weak, and he fumbled. He tried again, ignoring the pain in his arm and wrist as he contracted his muscles, slowly lifting him enough to wrap his left arm around the tree, above another branch he planned on using. Many painful movements later, and he swung his left leg around the branch his arm was resting against, hoisting his body up so his full weight was on said branch, more or less hugging the tree, fully off the ground.    
  
Okay. He was on the tree now. Done? No. He had to get higher. Hidden. But this part should be easier unless, of course, he had to use his hurt leg. Then this would not be easier. Bronte climbed up enough to put his weight on his left leg, and, with a grimace, started the long journey to a resting spot.   
  
Bronte’s hands were full of blisters and splinters, and every muscle screamed at him to stop, finally desisting as he slumped against a v-shaped pair of branches, holding him up. He didn’t know how high he was now, and he decided to not look down. He was tired and hurting, and he honestly wanted to cry. From both pain and general anxiety.    
  
He grabbed his satchel, and opened it up, snatching one of the last two bars. He took his time with this one, letting his taste buds relish the granola and raisins in the bar, eyes shut. The food still vanished before he wanted it to, and tears blurred his vision as he stared at the empty wrapper. He wanted so badly to rip open and eat the other, but he knew later him would despise him for it. So he shoved the wrapper into his bag, battered knuckles thumping against his imparter.    


It took a moment to realize what exactly he had knocked into, but then gasped, and he pulled it out, mentally hitting himself for not doing this first thing. He had a communication device, he could just call one of his friends to get him! Or a physician, was Elwin free? If not, he had a few others he could contact instead.    
  
Bronte cleared his throat, “hail Ewin.” He winced as his voice came out dry and empty. The imparter lit up at the command, but... it did not go through. He must be busy. Bronte tried another physician he knew. They were busy, too. Ugh, why was he wasting his breath on doctors? The council could alert a medical professional as soon as he was back, this wasn’t his responsibility.   
  
“Hail Oralie.” He waited. She didn’t answer. 

“Hail Terik.” Nope.

“Hail Emery.” Not him either.   
  
“Hail Noland.” Must be drunk, still.   
  
“Hail Clarette.” Probably with Noland?   
  
He went through the long list of councillors, but as that list ran dry, he swallowed down his panic.   
  
“Hail Sophie.” Even the Moonlark herself didn’t answer. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there, begging someone, anyone, to answer. His voice grew hoarse, and with every second he grew weaker and weaker.   
  
The imparter fell from his cold fingers, bouncing off branches as it clattered its way to the forest floor. Bronte closed his eyes, and he could do nothing more than just… sleep. A sigh escaped his lips, as his mind settled into dreamless oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Dex is injured in the explosion, and he wakes up under Elwin’s care, talking to him about the portal as well as a theory he has. Bronte wakes up to being chewed on by an animal, and flees into the trees where he tries to call the others before passing out.


	3. The Cow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings for Chapter 3: General fear, panic, anxiety, pain, weakness, and descriptions of injuries. Birds, beasts with sharp fangs, and mentions of animal suffering are included, and animal death is talked about. Tread with caution, you are cared about ♡

Bronte slowly woke up, blinking rapidly as his sluggish mind struggled back to consciousness. His muscles screamed as he hoisted himself into sitting up, no longer leaning against the branches he had fallen asleep on. He was still in the tree, he noted, and the pain wasn’t as bad as before. That was good.

He took inventory of his emotions, body, supplies, and surroundings. First, he was mainly feeling uncertain and hesitant. He didn’t want to leave the tree, he wanted to go back to sleep and forget this had ever happened. He wanted to wake up back in his comfortable castle, with people he tolerated and some problems that weren’t as dire. Well, problems that weren't as dire for him, specifically. He was a councillor, the highest authority, but others were not as fortunate. Sophie had a bounty on her life for reasons Bronte did not understand. She was young but intelligent, and Bronte both felt envious and inspired by her talents. They both could inflict, sure, but she could inflict happiness. 

He realized he wasn’t focusing on the issue at hand. He took a few deep breaths then focused on his body. Most of his muscles ached terribly, specifically the muscles in his back, arms, and upper torso. Turns out climbing a large tree while using mostly your arms wasn’t too good on the body. In addition to that, the small injuries he had sustained while climbing stung lightly, but none were infected or too terrible looking. But the show stopper, the massive bite on his leg, wasn’t as lucky. The wound had bled through the cape he had tied around it, and when he tried to lift it, he realized the fabric was glued to his bare flesh, stuck. He noted it had not stopped bleeding, and he felt considerably more cold and clammy than before he slept. He must be experiencing some blood loss shock. It also hurt a lot, but that was to be expected from such a horrid wound. 

Bronte grimaced and focused on what else he had. He was wearing a tunic, pants, heavy combat boots, a thick belt, and his bag. The bag had one nutrients bar and his money cube. The latter was no more than a glorified rock at this point. He didn’t see his imparter, it must have fallen when he passed out. He took out his belt, testing its strength by wrapping it around his hands and pulling. He glanced at his leg then looped the belt around his thigh, above his wound, cinching it tight. It stung, but he knew this could help stem the blood flow and increase his chance of survival.

He stopped, not liking how his mind worded that. Survival. Was this really about survival? Would he die out here if he did nothing? That.. that scared him. He didn’t want to think that if he made it out of this strange situation was entirely dependent on him doing what he could for survival. He didn’t like his well being and life being entirely dependent upon him. If he didn’t make it out, then that was entirely his fault. 

He realized he was shaking, and his breathing was coming in quick and shallow, and he connected the dots to realize he was having a panic attack. Also, the blood loss was getting to him. I have to get moving, the logical part of him told him. I have to get moving and I have to find help. 

So, before he could muster the courage to leave the tree, he took inventory of his surroundings. The forest floor was about 30 feet below him, and the tree he was on seemed to be some kind of oak, but with bigger leaves and sparser but thicker branches. The bark had small thorns in it, and Bronte realized that must be why he had so many splinters. He looked up at the sky, guesstimating that, if the time on this world was the same as earth, he had slept for 5 hours, and now it was early afternoon. Maybe 2 pm or something near it. 

Bronte carefully inched towards the trunk of the tree, wrapping his arm around it and moving both legs to one side of the branch he had been straddling, beginning the long and painful journey before he could convince himself otherwise. He got more pinpricks in his hands, and by the time he dropped back to solid ground, his hands were bleeding from several places. He grimaced, then looked around. 

He was alone. He didn’t see any animal or creature in the surrounding forest, but he had the strange sensation of being watched. He turned to scan the trees more carefully, but all he saw was deep shadows and strange movements. Nothing he could pinpoint the origin of. He shivered, hugging his arms to his chest. He didn’t want to know who, or what, was watching him. He’d just have to stay on guard until it showed itself.

Bronte spotted his imparter crushed into the dirt, and he put it in his bag, not wanting to think about the new marks on the tree or how the ground around his tree was trampled and ridden with footprints. He wasn’t alone, and something in the dark was out for him. He was injured, weak, out of his comfort zone, and lost.

Bronte chose a direction and started walking. He kept stumbling, and his injured leg made it difficult to make good progress. He spotted a large branch laying on the ground, picking it up and wincing as he saw more thorns along its length. He stood still for a few minutes, snapping them off with his fingernails until he had enough space to safely hold the end of the stick so he could use it as a walking stick for the rest of his journey. It worked pretty well, and he could now put less pressure on his wounded leg. 

He saw a few small creatures skitter about, between bushes and foliage, never staying in the open too long. He wondered what in the forest was so dangerous, and he wondered what he knew was following him was. He still had not discounted the theory it was a big cat. A few times he stole a glance behind him, seeing a large silhouette hidden in the shadows. But when it knew he saw, it disappeared deeper into the forest, only to return later to watch him. 

Bronte heard something, and he stopped, listening closely. He pieces together that it was water, crashing somewhere in the trees, likely from a waterfall of sorts. He made a beeline towards it, trying not to rush and overwork his weakened muscles. But he couldn’t help but walk faster, nearly discarding his walking stick in his haste. 

He pushed through the trees to see a small stream drifting between the trees, as well as a five-foot waterfall from a higher elevation of land. Bronte approached the steady flow of murky water and looked around to make sure he was alone. He was, well, enough that he could be when he knew something was watching. He decided to bite the bullet, sinking to the ground and sitting at the water's edge. He dipped his feet into the water, onto the mossy rocks underneath the captivating ripples. He dug his hands into the soft earth on either side of him, tugging at the roots of the blades of grass under his palms with his fingers. 

He closed his eyes, focusing on the sounds of nature around him. It was calming, and he wondered if he could spare sleeping a few more minutes. The logical side of him said no, he was being watched, he was out in the open, he could not sleep! But the emotional side begged for a brief rest, just a few minutes of shut-eye while listening to the water and crinkling leaves and chatter of nearby birds. 

The emotional side won over, and Bronte laid back against the grass, feet still in the water, hands still gripping the ground. He felt himself drift, and he let himself do so. His mind melted into shallow darkness, and his body relaxed against the ground. 

—

He was awoken by a sharp noise, and he felt pressure on his left leg. He groaned in displeasure at being interrupted from his sleep, dragging himself to a sitting position, flapping a hand aimlessly in front of him. His fingers brushed against something strange, and he was awarded a squawk and a sudden pain in his hand. He wrenched his eyes open to see… what the hell was that.

It was a bird. A bird of prey more specifically, and it was large, and perched on his left knee. Its feathers were a mix of brown and burgundy, and it stared at Bronte with large, unblinking yellow eyes. But he didn’t recognize what kind of bird it was. It looked as big as an eagle, patterned similar to a falcon, having the elegance and sleekness of a raven as well as the colors of a red hawk.

“Uh. Hi.” Bronte mumbled, shocked at its presence. “Can you... Get off me?” He asked slowly, waving a hand in an attempt to shoo it away, but the brilliant creature snapped at his fingers, ripping off a good chunk of flesh. “Ouch! Okay, okay, you can stay.” He assured, keeping his fingers a safe distance from its sharp beak. “What.. what should I call you?” 

The bird didn’t answer, cocking its head to the side and watching him, talons digging into his leg as it inched closer. Then, it stopped, lifted its shoulders, brought its head down and forward, then… “Roo-bee!” 

Bronte was stunned, surprised as it repeated the same word in the same tone, and he realized it was mimicking someone’s speech. It sounded like a man, but his tone was soft and friendly. Then, the bird, Ruby, he figured it was called, mimicked another sound, “hello!” 

Bronte laughed, surprising himself and the bird. He kept laughing, drained and tired, wrapping an arm around his stomach, his other gripping the ground with fervor, trying to steady himself from toppling over. The bird said hello a few more times before pecking at his hair, making him yelp. “Hey! Don’t- don't do that.” He stammered, falling into another fit of giggles. Ruby pecked at his hair a few more times, and he noted its beak was pretty sharp, but he honestly couldn't care less. 

“Boop boop!” Ruby announced, grabbing another strand of hair with its beak. “Boop boop!” It repeated, and Bronte watched it. 

Hesitantly, he repeated the phrase, “boop boop?” 

Ruby seemed happy, bouncing on his leg energetically, one talon slipping off and hitting against his injury, and Bronte cried out in pain. He clapped a hand over his mouth, but the damage was done. The bird stared at him, then, head cocked to the side, “boop boop?” It sounded a lot like how Bronte had said it. Nervous, and confused. 

This thing was smart, he realized, and he gulped down his pain. “Boop boop.” He responded as if those were actual words people used, and the bird seemed satisfied. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there, feet dipped into the water, a massive bird of prey perched on his left leg, talking to it solely using the words ‘boop boop’. Ruby avoided the bloody wound on his right leg the whole time, but it did climb onto his arms, shoulders, and head, repeatedly pecking his hair. He felt like he was going crazy, but for once he was enjoying himself and wasn’t overwhelmed with fear, so all was good. 

He was thoroughly enjoying the strange bird's companionship, it now perched on his right arm, pushing its face against his head, in an odd form of affection, when suddenly it turned to look into the forest, then flew away, gliding over the stream and landing in the trees. He frowned, wanting to call it back, but not knowing what to say other than a defeated “boop boop?”

Ruby stared at him, then mimicked a new word, “danger!” Bronte gasped, stumbling to his feet, turning to face the forest, eyes wide. He didn’t see anything at first, other than a dark silhouette. Slowly, it stepped from the shadows, head bowed. It looked to be a cow, thick with muscle but bony with malnutrition. It sniffed the ground, stalking towards him slowly, taking its time. 

Bronte watched it, heart racing. He did not know what he should do. He could run. Across the stream. But he could slip and fall on the rocks in his haste, and the cow would probably follow. Maybe he could fight past it, and get back into the trees? It had two spiraling horns sprouting from its temples, he could grab those and keep it away. 

He realized it might not be much of a threat. Sure it had a lot more muscle mass than him, and those horns looked sharp, but what could it really do to him? Bronte stood straighter, putting his weight on both legs despite the pain it gave him. Appearing bigger was an intimidation tactic to animals, right? Maybe? 

His logical mind told him it shouldn’t be too much of a threat, if he just stood his ground and appeared strong, but he felt a nagging voice. Look closer, it insisted, this wasn’t a normal cow. So Bronte did so, analyzing every feature. Something felt off about its face. Normally cows had a jaw that ended in a sort of point, but this cow’s jaw looked square, more similar to a dog than a cow. Bronte did not know what this could mean when the creature opened its mouth.

Bronte knew, instantly, this thing was a threat. It pulled back its lips, revealed row upon row of jagged teeth, razor-sharp and terrifying. The teeth each looked as long as a finger, and were yellowed and glistening with saliva and remnants of blood. Then, it growled, staring up at Bronte with beady black eyes, and a jolt of terror shot right into Bronte’s soul. The beast lowered its head to the ground, preparing its body, then lunged, jaw opened wide, ready to snap onto Bronte’s neck and kill him.

He had never inflicted on an animal, but he knew that was the only way out. The pain and sorrow and fear he had been storing ever since appearing in this new world flowed out of him, crashing right into the soul of the horrid creature. It’s muscles locked up, and it collapsed onto its side, tense and trembling from the agonizing pain Bronte had given it. 

“I’m sorry.” He said, meaning it, knowing it only hunted for food and not for sport. But he didn’t want to be food, so he had to hurt it. Bronte scrambled away from the creak, not seeing the stick he had come in with, but he had more pressing matters at hand, so he ran. Pure adrenaline carried him into the forest, away from the cow, ears ringing from the pain and fear swarming his body, and he knew he couldn’t last long on adrenaline alone.

The cow had recovered, he realized, hearing an array of noises behind him, getting closer and closer. “Help!” He screamed into the forest, feeling his energy and body giving up, quickly. But he had to get away, he had to, he didn’t want to be food for this horrendous beast and die alone in this wicked forest. 

He swore he could feel the beast's breath on his neck as it lunged for his life, but a loud crack interrupted its descent. He stole a glance back to see the cow collapsed on the ground once more, with a dent in its skull. He stopped, making a double-take. A bloodied rock lay not far away, and Bronte connected the dots as fast as he could, letting out a horrified cry. 

“What the fuck, is it dead?” Bronte managed, looking around for the perpetrator, but the forest looked empty. He was exhausted, but his adrenaline refused to fade.

“No.” 

The voice was soft and unsteady, and Bronte recognized it from Ruby. When he looked up into the trees he saw the silhouette of not a bird, but a man. They were encased in shadow, and they were watching Bronte.

But they were anxious, clearly wringing their hands in front of their chest, then they spoke, a bit more frightened than Bronte expected, “cow bill we ok, hurry!” And Bronte finally realized they had let down a rope ladder, and he was spurred forward, beginning to climb up, clenching his teeth to keep from crying. The adrenaline had faded enough that pain was very much noticeable. 

He hesitated near the top of the ladder, dizzy and overwhelmed, full of pain and fear, uncertain to put his life and trust in whoever was up there. But he took a deep breath, steadying himself and his emotions, before climbing the rest of the way.

If he had any expectations, it certainly wasn’t this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Bronte wakes up in his tree then decides to get moving. He finds a stream, and a strange bird called Ruby. He also has a run in with a toothy cow, and is rescued by a man hidden in the trees. The man calls him up a ladder, and Bronte does so.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are heavily appreciated, I still read them! This fic will not be updated, as it is abandoned. My tumblr is fabulous-fan-fables and I’m pretty active on there, tho.


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